


My Boy, I Love You More Tomorrow Than I Did Today

by ohbullship



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Gay Male Character, Love, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Moving In Together, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:33:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohbullship/pseuds/ohbullship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All I know is that the sun makes his skin sparkle and his hair look shiny and his lips look redder. All I know is that I’ve never been more in love than I am in this very moment. I’m sure I’ll say that again. Later today when he kisses me “I do” or shoves cake in my face. I’ll say it tomorrow. And next Saturday. And next month. And in February when everything is gloomy and I wait for spring flowers to pick out of the neighbor’s garden to put in a vase for my boy. I’ll say it a year from now. And on our fiftieth anniversary. And if I get to choose, those will be my very last words. That’s how much I love my boy. </p><p>or</p><p>The one where Louis is way too in love with his boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Boy, I Love You More Tomorrow Than I Did Today

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of just came up with this and couldn't stop thinking about it until i wrote it. It works backwards and hopefully that doesn't confuse you too much. Feedback is always welcome and any mistakes are my own blah blah blah. I don't know or own one direction or any of the characters, i write this purely for my own benefit. 
> 
> for jake  
> because you taught me what love is even if you disappeared.

It’s weird, love. It’s like giving everything to someone. The things that were once only yours are now theirs, too. And the things that were once only theirs are yours, now, as well. It’s terrifying. It’s always going to be frightening. You’re always going to be afraid. Afraid to do or say the wrong thing. Afraid to fuck up. Afraid to _lose_ that one person who knows you almost better than you know yourself. But somehow it’s worth it.

I am in love.

So deeply in love that I can’t remember what it’s like not to be in love. I don’t know if I’ve loved him for four years or 1,460 days or 35,040 hours or 2,102,400 minutes, or maybe my entire life and past-lives, too—if that’s a thing; I don’t know but I also don’t care.

He’s sort of wonderful, this boy. His nose is big. And his hands. And his mouth. But mostly his heart. His heart is the size of all of Europe, probably. And he never stops giving. He never stops caring too much. He’s kind of a saint, my boy.

He’s got legs that go on forever. And sometimes when we lay on the couch watching reruns of Seinfeld, they hook around my ankles and tangle around my own legs. They keep my feet warm, warmer than any blanket can. I find myself not turning the heat up, just so I have a reason to be closer to him.

He’s not funny, is the thing. But I laugh at all his jokes. I’ve been laughing for so long now that maybe his sense of humor has rubbed off on me. Or maybe I just like the way his eyes light up like a Christmas tree when I clutch at my stomach from laughing so hard.

His eyes. Those are another thing. Bright, emerald. Beautiful. And I’ve never really liked green eyes—never even noticed them—but now they're my favorite color.

Today’s our wedding day. Mine and the boy’s. A new chapter in our book, a new book to our series, a new series to our collection and so on and so forth. And I’ve never been so happy. Never smiled so much. I’ve also never slept less.

I should be sleeping. Should be getting rest. I should be curled into my boy. He’s snoring loudly next to me. His snoring drives me insane. I tell him this a lot. It’s constant and distracting and makes it hard for me to sleep even when I’m not trying. Sometimes I almost take my pillow and go to sleep on the couch. But if I didn’t hear the constant snoring—the occasional snort—I don’t think I’d be able to sleep at all. Because as much as it bothers me, I’ve grown to love it.

This boy. He makes me crazy. Has ever since I met him. He’s stunning. Had me stuttering and tripping over my own feet, something I don’t normally do.

I’ve noticed that he does this too, my boy. He does it, even now. Just yesterday morning he missed the last step and fell into the game closet at the end of the stairs. And just last week he told me a story and repeated the third sentence eight times. I don’t mind.

The sun is beginning to rise.

I haven’t slept a wink.

My boy will be upset. I say upset even though I know that’s not it. He won’t be angry, just worried. He worries a lot. Mostly about me. He’ll fret over the fact that I didn’t sleep with such a big day ahead of me and insist I take a nap or something in the short time between the ceremony and the reception.

He’s a little crazy.

Actually, my boy is really crazy.

That only makes me love him more.

The soft sun is hitting his face. He’s curled around the pillow I put in place of myself under the window. I’m sitting across the room in the small arm chair we placed there. It normally is just a clothes rack but I cleared it off so I can write sonnets about the way the sun makes my boy look even more like an angel than normal.

I don’t actually know shit about writing sonnets.

All I know is that the sun makes his skin sparkle and his hair look shiny and his lips look redder. All I know is that I’ve never been more in love than I am in this very moment. I’m sure I’ll say that again. Later today when he kisses me “I do” or shoves cake in my face. I’ll say it tomorrow. And next Saturday. And next month. And in February when everything is gloomy and I wait for spring flowers to pick out of the neighbor’s garden to put in a vase for my boy. I’ll say it a year from now. And on our fiftieth anniversary. And if I get to choose, those will be my very last words. That’s how much I love my boy.

-

I’ve never been so nervous.

My friends keep telling me there’s no way he can say no. That he looks at me like I put water in the oceans. I’d say stars in the sky but my boy has his own theory on that. He says that each star is someone’s soul. That when we die, our soul—our substance—floats into the sky. He talks about this when he’s really tired and has me tucked into his side or when he’s drunk and laying in the grass in our backyard. I kiss his chest every time so that maybe his star will shine a little brighter.

It’s been months since I bought the ring.

I figured I should do it the right way. My boy’s a little old fashioned like that.

But I just wanted to trace the words into his back and have him guess the letters while we watched reruns of Full House late at night. That seemed to work in the past.

I wanted to write the words in banana slices and watch him eat them one by one after he squeals.

I wanted to ask him under the mistletoe on Christmas. I wanted to ask him at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I wanted to have a plane write it across the sky. I wanted to ask God to write it in the stars. But God's a busy man and he still hasn’t gotten back to me on that.

It’s been a long while since we’ve been on a proper date. Been too long since we’ve gotten weird looks in a restaurant that we can hardly afford because we’re giggling too loud. It’s been too long since I’ve been with my boy.

Well. Twelve hours. But that’s a lot of time when it comes to him.

It’s not that I really think he’ll say no.

We talk about our future together before bed and during Jeopardy commercial breaks and while we cook dinner.

I just can’t imagine a future without him there. I can’t see waking up next to anyone else. I can’t remember what anyone else’s lips felt like on mine. I never want to. His lips taste like apples or strawberries or some fruit that I can’t quite think of when he’s kissing me because it makes me dizzy.

Once, at a family dinner, his mother whispered something to me about a brochure. One she found in my boy’s back pocket when she went to wash his jeans. It’s called “the top ten honeymoon destinations in the world” and my cheeks felt like they were on fire. She just laughed and patted my bum, of course, because she, like everyone else apparently, couldn’t see us with anyone else.

I put on a nice dress shirt—the one he laid out for me because he wanted to coordinate—and my black jeans. I put on my nicest pair of shoes and push my hair back with some product. I brush my teeth, twice for good measure, and head out the door.

I’m late.

I’m always late.

But I’m late tonight because I forgot the fucking ring in the bedroom. I almost forgot the most important thing of the evening and quite possibly my life. I remembered halfway there and had to make a U-turn, even though it’s illegal there, and run back into the house and grab the ring before arriving at Barone’s fifteen minutes late.

I find him at a table in the left wing, looking at the menu and shaking his leg—a nervous habit that I’ve grown used to even though I used to have to hold his knee down so he’d stop moving.

“Hi, love. Sorry, I forgot something.” He only smiles up at me, his dimples popping out.

“That’s okay, I knew you would be late.” His tone is teasing and it makes my heart swell a little bit more.

Dinner runs smoothly. He gets the chicken alfredo and I stick to lasagna. He steals bits off my plate and has sauce stains at the corners of his mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love than I am today.

He insists on dessert.

He orders us a triple chocolate cake even though they had pumpkin pie, his favorite. I love him too much for my own good. I don’t think I can get away even if I tried. I’ve thought about running. Packing a duffle and not looking back. I don’t think I could ever really do that but sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in love and that can’t be good. He’ll pull me back up though. Kiss me and put fresh air into my lungs. I’m not as afraid as I was before.

I don’t really have it all planned out.

My thoughts are scattered so I do what I think of first. I drop my fork on the ground and stop him before he can pick it up for me. He’s calling me a klutz as I nearly fall off my chair to get it but instead of grabbing the fork, I find myself on one knee with a small, velvet box held out in my hands.

He’s not paying me any attention. All he is focused on is the cake in front of him—the sauce stains replaced by chocolate frosting that I briefly think about licking off right here in the middle of a restaurant. I cough twice before he looks down at me with wide eyes and chocolate cake in his mouth. I can already see tears brimming in his glassy, beautiful eyes and I have to fight back my own because the lord knows I’m a sap.

“I love you.” I remind him. “I’ve loved you for so long now. I love your weird curly hair and your stupid, long legs. I love your dimples and your laugh. I love that you’re a messy eater and don’t notice when you have chocolate on your face and I just love everything about you. And ever since I’ve met you, your fears have become mine and your wants take priority over mine and I’d do anything for you. I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten me quite like you have and I love you because you make me smile and you make me feel safe. I want to make every decision for the rest of my life with you by my side.” And fuck I know I’m rambling but there’s so much I want to say to this boy who walked in and changed my whole life. “You’re mine and I’m yours and I never want that to change.” He’s already nodding but I want to finish this the right way. “Will you do the honor of marrying me?”

He doesn’t speak as I push the ring onto his finger. He doesn’t speak as I wipe the happy tears from his cheeks. He doesn’t speak while I snog his face off at home. It’s not until we’re nearly asleep, two sweaty bodies molded together, that he finally speaks.

“Did I really have chocolate on my face when you popped the question?” His cheeks are tinted pink with embarrassment so I nuzzle my nose against his cheek and lick at the corner of his mouth.

“I think I got it.” I mumble into his skin.

“What would I do without you?”

And now we’ll never have to know.

-

“It’s all fair in love and war” is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard. Because it is absolutely not fair. It is not fair for me to tell my boy to leave and it’s not fair for my boy to listen. It was supposed to be an empty threat. It wasn’t supposed to _mean_ anything. But it did.

There was just so much yelling. Him telling me that I always overreact and that I don’t own him. Me telling him that he shouldn’t be acting like a slut.

“I dressed like that for _you,_ you giant idiot!” he had screamed in my face.

“Well that man seemed to like it. You didn’t even fucking care that he was practically shoving his dick on you!”

“You’re—you’re ridiculous” He yelled. Even when he’s mad his words are slow and labored and stuttered. Even when I'm mad, I'm endeared.

“Or how about buying those drinks for those two girls. That was rich.”

“They just got dumped!” he defended. That led our argument into money and how we don’t have it to spend on sluts in the club that got dumped by their latest arm candy piece of shit. And he’d said that I was jealous that people were paying attention to him and that’s where I drew the line. I could practically see the steam coming from my ears.

I watched my boy walk out. Right through the very door we stumbled through with the last of our boxes when we moved in. The door we kissed against countless times. The door to the place that holds so many laughs and jokes and memories.

I can’t even remember what the fight was about. Something stupid. Some boy dancing on him at the club and his boy not doing anything about it. I wish I didn’t freak out too much. I wish I realized that my boy is just too nice to tell someone to fuck off. He was probably boring the man with a speech about how he is taken and no means no and all that. But I realized this too late. He was already gone. He left his phone and wallet and he’s out there in the big world with nothing.

The walls feel empty.

It’s too quiet without loud cackling or the oven dinging or _someone_ tripping over _something_. Without loud music blaring from the radio and my boy twirling me around the living room until we both fall over.

I miss him, is the thing. I’m not even mad anymore. How could I be when he’s out wandering the streets with nothing?

I call around. Ask everyone I can think of if they’ve seen him. They haven’t. They’re no help, really.

Love is really hard sometimes. It doesn’t make any sense. The person who made you this mad makes you the happiest. My boy makes me crazy. He drives me nuts. Makes me want to pull my hair out. But he makes me giggle like buffoon. He makes me smile like an idiot. He makes me feel loved. And all I want is him.

I want his hands in my hair and his lips on my forehead. I just want to be close to him.

My heart feels like shattered glass. I feel like half of me is missing. And maybe it is. We’ve spent the last two years living out of each other’s back pockets. Fuck. Love is so fucking stupid. All it does is tear you to shreds. I’ve never felt so away from myself. My skin feels raw like it does after a hot shower. I feel numb and hurt.

I don’t sleep in the bed. The sheets still smell like him. His clothes are still scattered all over the ground. It feels empty. I don’t cry. I just don’t. I want to cry. My heart contracts and I feel like I can’t breathe. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Or a stroke.

I can’t sleep on the couch, either. Too many long nights spent there.

I don't know how I could sleep anywhere without him. How I ever had a full night of sleep without his legs tangled with mine or his arms around me or his soft snores.

Neither of us said it was over. Neither of us called it quits. But it feels like it. It feels like he’s gone and never coming back. Which can’t be true, he left all of his belongings here. But he can always come back and take them and leave me here to rot by myself because surely there’s no way out of this.

I know I’m dramatic. He tells me this almost daily. But I’ve just never loved someone as much as I love my boy. I’ve never felt so much for one person. I’ve never wanted anything more than his happiness. And I hurt him. The look in his eyes was enough to break my heart every time I close my own.

I fall asleep in the hallway. It has the least amount of memories. Except the time I slept here just outside the bathroom when my boy was sick and didn’t want me to see him vomiting.

When I wake up I’m confused as to why I’m not curled into a boy with too long arms and a warm body. And why I am asleep on the floor of the hallway. And it hits me.

I need to find my boy.

I scramble to my feet and prepare myself to run all around town and check everywhere—the library, the record shop, his childhood home, his sister’s, anywhere. But just as I run towards the door I notice a boy with messy curls and tear stained cheeks sitting criss cross applesauce on the couch.

He gives me a careful look. The corners of his lips lift up a little. I return it but stay where I am as I choke out an apology.

“Me too.” He says with a bigger grin. “C’mere then.” He mumbles as he opens his arms for me. I love him more than the sky and the ocean floor and everything in between.

“Never want to lose you again.” I whisper into his hair. It smells like vanilla and _him_.

“Never even lost me.”

“I was worried sick. Nobody had seen you.”

“That’s because I didn’t go anywhere. I was in my car.” His hands run through my messy hair and he pushes a kiss to the back of my ear and I know everything will be alright in the end.

-

The first time we were intimate was our second night in our flat.

And I didn’t want to do anything he didn’t want to but there were no objections. I kissed open his mouth on our brand new bed under our brand new comforter and everything was new but I was so used to the way his kiss tasted.

He rutted up against me and I had to hold back my groans at how ready he already was for me. His dick hard in his boxers as he kissed me. Arousal stirred in my spine and went straight to my half-hard cock. I kissed him harder until he was making inhumane sounds underneath me begging for something.

I moved my lips to his collar bones and sucked bruises there and kissed over the red spots to mark him as my own. I wanted everyone to know he was mine and only mine. Nobody else could have him.

I licked a strip down his tummy all the way to his happy trail until I met the waistband of his boxers and I teased a little, only because he looked so pretty like that. He was all laid out wriggling for me to be closer. I mouthed over his dick in his boxers and reveled in the noises he was making.

“You like that, babe?” I muttered as I pulled them down to his ankles to reveal his pretty pink cock. I sucked lightly on the head and slowly dragged my hand up and down his shaft, flicking my wrist every so often. I let him fuck into the back of my throat until there were tears in my eyes and jaw started to clench and I pulled away just before he could come down my throat. “Not yet, love. Wanna fuck you right.” I whispered as I made my way up his body.

I nibbled at his ear for a bit as he shook underneath me. “Is that alright?” He writhed underneath me and I moved to pull on a condom and slick myself up with lube.

I opened him up slowly with one finger. It prodded around his hold until I hit his prostate and he moaned into my shoulder.

“More.” He had begged. He reached for briefs and pulled them down and I felt sweet relief as my dick sprung out of its confines.

I added another finger and went slow and I spread him open. “M’ready.” He groaned and I knew I wouldn’t be able to handle it much longer so I slowly flipped him over and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck before sliding my tip into him.

The sounds he were making were so breathy and beautiful that I didn’t think I could handle it.

“Fuck, babe, you’re so tight.”

“Harder.” He grunted.

I obliged. I pushed all the way into him gathering up everything I had to keep myself going. He throbbed around me and I could shoot my load just then but I needed to make this perfect for my boy.

I fucked him into the mattress. His hands grabbed at the sheets so he wouldn’t touch his already leaking cock. I wanted to badly to watch his face as he came.

“Are you close? Wanna come for me?” He nodded, unable to speak as he spilled all over his chest.

It only took a couple more of my own thrusts before I was spilling into the condom and sighing contentedly into his chest.

“Jesus.” He breathed finally.

“Louis will do.” He laughed at my lame joke and that’s when I knew that I never wanted to be like this with anyone else in the whole world. “I fucking love you.”

“I fucking love you too, idiot.” He responded before kissing me softly and curling into my chest.

-

We were just sitting in his old bedroom watching Grease.

That’s how it started.

And he lifted me off the bed and made me sing and dance to “You’re the One that I Want” and we laughed and giggled into each other.

The simplest things really are the best. It's times like these, sitting in his bedroom watching classics, when I am happiest.

He's calling me Danny and pushing my chest as he sings to me, telling me to shape up. His smile is too wide and I'm sure my face looks like it's about to split in half, too.

He knocks over the lamp. _The_ lamp. The lamp that he always knocks over. The one his mother puts in his room just to tease him about all the times he broke it as a child. It nearly shatters the light bulb and he's a giggling mess after that.

As I'm laughing at him he tries to be serious and pretend to be mad at me but he trips over the rug and knocks us both down.

We don't move, though. Just stay there on the ground laughing. His arms pull me closer and I rest my head on his chest. His gray t-shirt smells like buttered popcorn and cologne and it should probably make me gag but I'm comfortable like this. I'm comfortable with him.

"We're not buying any lamps when we move in together." And it's the first time we've ever really talked about it. My head is spinning but the only thing I can see is him tripping and falling everywhere.

"We'll have to cover the place in bubble wrap." I say into his t-shirt. I can feel his smile widen on top of my head and he beings to laugh. A real chuckle--low and happy.

"Let's do it." He whispers like it's a secret just for us. And maybe it is.

"Yeah?" He's only eighteen, still just a boy. Moving in seems too soon but I’ve never wanted anything more.

“Mhm.” He mumbles. So it’s decided then.

Three weeks later and we’ve found the perfect place.

It’s small. It smells like cabbage and vinegar and hardly has hot water. But it’s got one bedroom and two bathrooms and a nice little balcony overlooking the street and it feels like we can make it home.

I’ve never seen my boy so happy. He hasn’t stopped smiling since we’ve signed the papers. Not when we were packing our things or when his mother hugged him goodbye—she only lives twenty minutes away—and not when we carried boxes six flights and not when we collapsed on the old, dusty couch.

Sleeping the first night in our own flat feels surreal. I’ve never been so in love with my boy. I’ve never felt more at home than I do right now. And as we fall asleep he talks about making dinner for both our families. And he talks about weekly game nights with our friends and having my sister’s spend the night. I sleep soundly, wrapped in my boy and covered in love.

-

Today in English my professor told me that if I wanted to be a writer I’d have to write about things that don’t make any sense. He told me to keep a journal and write about things that inspire me.

I told him I don’t know what inspires me.

That’s when he said something I’ll never forget.

He told me to write about places. Skyscrapers and alleyways covered in graffiti. To write about gated neighborhoods and the docks out by the sea. He told me to write about my childhood home and somewhere that always puts a smile on my face.

He told me to write about things. Like the way trees grow or the color of a flower. And he said there’s a certain art to the colors of the sky during a sunset—something you can’t explain but you have to try to put it into words anyways.

He said to write about pain. To dig deep and find the one thing that hurts me the most. He told me I should lay my emotions out on the table and tell it like it is. There’s nothing more real than your deepest darkest secrets. You have to be real. You have to show your weakness to enlighten people. Make yourself vulnerable.

All I can think of writing about is a boy. A boy in a diner with wicked curly hair and sparkly eyes. And he never orders anything other than a coffee but he sits there for hours reading and I wonder that if one day he’d like to read my books.

This boy is strange because he bounces his knee and bites his lip and never looks up from his book. He spilled coffee all down his chin and didn’t even wipe it up until he was ready to leave. I find myself watching him. He’s curious. I want to write about him all the time.

I can’t think of anything better to write about than him.

But I need a name. And maybe I want to kiss his lips and write poems about it but I’ll save that bit of information for later. I make my way to his table.

I can’t remember feeling nervous trying to talk to someone but my hand is sweating as I hold it out. He doesn’t look up from his book. I cough a few times before he draws his eyes towards me, a smile forming on his face and a little dimple popping up and I think I’m in love.

He goes to shake my hand but knocks over his coffee and looks up sheepishly.

“Oops.” I laugh quietly as I hand him a napkin.

“Hi.” He looks grateful that I didn’t say anything or make fun of him or leave from his coffee incident but he just looks so damn cute how could I?

“I’m Harry.” And yeah. He’s Harry. And he’s sort of beautiful and I want to write novels about him.

“Louis.”

**Author's Note:**

> my blog was hacked and deleted so it's now rideslou (was ohbullship) on tumblr if you wanted to follow me that'd be rad


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